Their fuit, which was too juft to be deny'd,
The hero grants, and farther thus reply'd :
O Latian princes, how fevere a fate.
In caufelefs quarrels has involv'd your ftate!
And arm'd against an unoffending man,
Who fought your friendship ere the war began!
You beg a truce, which I would gladly give,
Not only for the flain, but those who live.
I came not hither but by heaven's command,
And fent by Fate to fhare the Latian land.
Nor wage I wars unjust; your king deny'd
My proffer'd friendship, and my promis'd bride.
Left me for Turnus; Turnus then should try
His caufe in arms, to conquer or to die.
My right and his are in difpute: the flain
Fell without fault, our quarrel to maintain.
In equal arms let us alone contend;
And let him vanquish, whom his Fates befriend.
This is the way, fo tell him, to poffefs
The royal virgin, and restore the peace.
Bear this my meffage back; with ample leave
That your
flain friends may funeral-rites receive. 120
Thus having faid, th' embaffadors amaz'd,
Stood mute a while, and on each other gaz'd:
Drances, their chief, who harbour'd in his breaft
Long hate to Turnus, as his foe profess'd,
Broke filence firft, and to the godlike man,
With graceful action bowing, thus began:
Aufpicious prince, in arms a mighty name,
But yet whofe actions far tranfcend your fame:
Would I your justice or your force express,
"Thought can but equal; and all words are lefs:
Your answer we shall thankfully relate,
And favours granted to the Latian state:
If wifh'd fuccefs your labour fhall attend,
Think peace concluded, and the king your
Let Turnus leave the realm to your command:
And feek alliance in fome other land:
Build you the city which your Fates affign:
We shall be proud in the great work to join.
Thus Drances; and his words fo well perfuade
The reft impower'd, that foon a truce is made.
Twelve days the term allow'd and during those,
Latians and Trojans, now no longer foes,
Mix'd in the woods, for funeral piles prepare,
To fell the timber, and forget the war.
Loud axes through the groaning groves refound:
Oak, mountain-afh, and poplar, fpread the ground:
Firs fall from high: and fome the trunks receive,
In loaden wains, with wedges fome they cleave.
And now the fatal news by Fame is blown
Through the fhort circuit of th' Arcadian town,
Of Pallas flain by Fame, which just before
His triumphs on diftended pinions bore.
Rushing from out the gate, the people stand,
Each with a funeral flambeau in his hand :
Wildly they ftare, distracted with amaze :
The fields are lighten'd with a fiery blaze,
That caft a fullen fplendor on their friends
The marching troop which their dread prince attends)
Both parties meet: they raise a doleful cry :
The matrons from the walls with fhrieks reply: 220
́And their mix'd mourning rends the vaulted sky.
The town is fill'd with tumult and with tears,
Till the loud clamours reach Evander's ears!.
Forgetful of his state, he runs along,
With a diforder'd pace, and cleaves the throng: 225
Falls on the corpfe, and groaning there he lies,
With filent grief, that fpeaks but at his eyes:
Short fighs and fobs fucceed: till forrow breaks
A paffage, and at once he weeps and speaks.
O Pallas! thou haft fail'd thy plighted word!
To fight with caution, not to tempt the fword,
I warn'd thee, but in vain; for well I knew
What perils youthful ardour would pursue:
That boiling blood would carry thee too far;
Young as thou wert in dangers, raw to war!
O curft effay of arms, difaftrous doom,
Prelude of bloody fields, and fights to come!
Hard elements of inaufpicious war,
Vain vows to heaven, and unavailing care!
Thrice happy thou, dear partner of my bed,
Whofe holy foul the stroke of fortune fled:
Præfcious of ills, and leaving me behind,
To drink the dregs of life by fate affign'd.
Beyond the goal of nature I have gone;.
My Pallas late fet out, but reach'd too foon.
If, from my league against th' Ausonian state,
Amid their weapons I had found my fate,
(Deferv'd from them) then I had been return'd
A breathless victor, and my fon had mourn'd.
Yet will not I my Trojan friend upbraid,
Nor grudge th' alliance I fo gladly made.
'Twas not his fault my Pallas fell fo young,
But my own crime for having liv'd too long.
Yet, fince the gods had deftin'd him to die,
At least he led the way to victory:
First for his friends he won the fatal fhore,
And fent whole herds of flaughter'd foes before:
A death too great, too glorious to deplore.
Nor will I add new honours to thy grave;
Content with thofe the Trojan hero gave.
That funeral pomp thy Phrygian friends defign'd;
In which the Tufcan chiefs and army join'd:
Great fpoils, and trophies gain'd by thee, they bear:
Then let thy own atchievements be thy fhare.
Ev'n thou, O Turnus, hadft a trophy stood,
Whofe mighty trunk had better grac'd the wood.
If Pallas had arriv'd, with equal length
Of years, to match thy bulk with equal ftrength. "But why, unhappy man, dost thou detain
Thefe troops to view the tears thou shed'st in vain!
Go, friends, this message to your
lord relate;
Tell him, that if I bear my bitter fate,
And after Pallas' death, live lingering on,
Tis to behold his vengeance for my fon.
I ftay for Turnus; whofe devoted head
Is owing to the living and the dead:
My fon and I expect it from his hand;
'Tis all that he can give, or we demand.
Joy is no more: but I would gladly go,
To greet my Pallas with fuch news below.
The morn had now dispell'd the shades of night; Reftoring toils, when she restor'd the light: The Trojan king, and Tuscan chief, command To raise the piles along the winding strand : . Their friends convey the dead to funeral fires ; Black fmouldring fmoke from the green wood expires; The light of heaven is chok'd, and the new day retires. Then thrice around the kindled piles they go (For ancient custom had ordain'd it so). Thrice horfe and foot about the fires are led, And thrice with loud laments they hail the dead. Tears trickling down their breasts bedew the ground; And drums and trumpets mix their mournful found. Amid the blaze, their pious brethren throw
The fpoils, in battle taken from the foe;
Helms, bitts embofs'd, and fwords of fhining fteel,
One cafts a target, one a chariot-wheel :
Some to their fellows their own arms restore :
The fauchions which in luckless fight they bore:
Their bucklers pierc'd, their darts beftow'd in vain,
And fhiver'd lances gather'd from the plain,
Whole herds of offer'd bulls about the fire,
And bristled boars, and woolly sheep expire.
Around the piles a careful troop attends,
To watch the wasting flames, and weep their burning
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